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Mock Writes: Wyatt and Darius

Updated: Jun 30, 2021

Hey all! So my intention is to have a place on this site to post free works for you. There will be spanking stories. There will be time stamps from my published works. There will be some of my musings. Eventually I'll take the time (aka. Call Wix) and get help to make the vision of I what I see for this. For now, I'll post them in my blog section and try to label them well so you can find them.

To start, you're going to get three short stories. I asked IG to send me "Hot Men". From there I had intended to muse some stuff, just a few short things and post them on IG.

This IS short! But it's too long for IG. So I've posted the whole thing here.

The first one is from @Author_Garry_Michael. By the way, he just published his debut novel: Point Break A Novel. I read it and it's super sweet. You can find it here if you wanna check it out: Point Break. There's a new YA version and an audiobook!

He requested that this lovely man be named Wyatt and that he was discharged due to PTSD.

You Can Tremor Beside Me

Wyatt and Darius (1/1)

My hands clench and I close my eyes. Count to ten, Wyatt. Count to fucking ten. Thanks to Dr. Irvin, this mother fucker’s not getting punched in the face.
“I said no. I don’t drink.” Now go the fuck away.
My hands tremble. The tremors won’t stop. He’s looking at them.
He sits beside me anyway. I give him my darkest look. It doesn’t deter him. He slides into the chair like someone put it there for him. He’s thin with long legs in crisp black slacks. Tall. His blue tie is loose and hanging askew around his neck with the top two buttons of his white shirt undone. He hangs his black blazer—that one had hung off his long fingers—over the chair.

“You know what your problem is?”
Awesome. One of these assholes. I ignore him.
He signals for the bartender to bring him a scotch and loosens his tie further. “As I was saying, your problem. You need to lighten up. Have fun. Know how you have fun? Alcohol. One drink won’t kill you.”
I know what will get rid of him. The truth. “I’m a recovering alcoholic.”
He smirks. “See? Didn’t it feel good to get that out of the way? Now we have nothing to hide from each other. A cranberry soda with lime for my friend here. Hold the vodka.”
“I told you—”
“—no. Got that.” He’s so fucking smug. “I just don’t listen very well. People say it’s part of my charm.”
“Hold the cranberry, Eddie,” I tell him. Eddie. The bartender. I don’t like it. I won’t have Eddie wasting his cranberry juice on me.
“Tell me,” he says laying his hand flat on the bar top. “What’s a recovering alcoholic doing in a bar? This some kind of masochistic thing?”
I don’t answer. Maybe if I ignore him long enough, he’ll go away. I don’t look at him, but I have good peripheral vision and can’t help taking stock of what’s around me. He’s got blond hair and hazel eyes. His hair’s a mess; stiff in places. Like it was neatly gelled back but maybe he ran his hands through it too many times. It flops all over the place when he moves, like wet yarn.
Eddie brings our drinks. Blondie swirls his scotch and takes a slow sip. I keep my eyes fixed on the hockey game.
His eyes flicker to the TV. “Ah. No ESPN at home then.”
Fine. So, he’s an observant fucker. I’ll give him that. I make the mistake of looking at him.
He smiles like he won something. I look away pissed at myself.
“I had a parrot once,” he says.
He would. Looks rich. Rich people have exotic shit for the sake of having exotic shit. I don’t give him any inclination that I’m listening. But I am listening to my dismay, missing the hockey game.
“Fucking nasty piece of shit. He bit everyone. Fucking asshole bird. He wouldn’t talk either and parrots are supposed to fucking talk—that’s why you get a parrot.”
Then he pulls out his phone. Doesn’t finish the story. He sips his scotch without looking up, focused on his phone. He orders wings. Eddie puts them down between us and now it’s like we’re something, hanging out in comfortable silence.
I will not ask about the damn parrot. I don’t care. Besides. I know what you do with things that don’t work how they’re supposed to. You get rid of them. It probably ended up in a pet store. It’s probably withering in a cage.
He eats the wings he ordered. They’re messy and he has to lick his fingers. The sucking sounds he makes go straight to my cock. And grate on my nerves. I grit my teeth and inhale slow, adjusting myself so he won’t notice. I have to look though. I flick my eyes over, his head’s still in his phone, long strands of hair hanging in his face. He huffs at whatever he’s dealing with, blowing his hair upward. Biting his lip.
I flush hot. The half chub in my pants hardens. No. No Wyatt.
He looks up and catches me looking at him. I look away but it’s too late. His satisfied smile burns into the side of my skull and I sip my soda without thinking—I wasn’t planning on drinking it.
“I’m Darius,” he says. He waits. When I say nothing he says, “Now you say, hi I’m Major So-and-so.”
I whip my head around and squint at him. “How’d you know I was a Major?”
He snatches the tags around my neck, only able to do it because I wasn’t expecting him to. I grab his wrist lightning fast—it’s a soft wrist—but he’s already got them clutched in his finely manicured hand. “Let go,” I say.
He laughs but he lets go. “I didn’t know. I don’t know much about the army; only rank I could think of.”
“Marines,” I say throwing his arm away.
“Okay. The Marines. That all I had to do to get you to talk? You said was—so how’d you get axed? Was it a code red situation? Was Jack Nicholson at your hearing?”
I wanna pull my hair out. “Do you ever stop talking?”
“No.” He’s unapologetic. “If you won’t tell me your name, I’ll call you Major. Major Handsome.” He waggles his brow.
I glare. “You’re a fucking brat.”
“It’s been said.” He blinks his hazel eyes. He leans over. “You wanna spank me.”
My heart races. I tear my gaze away. Go back to watching the game. Eventually he’s into his phone again.
It wouldn’t work anyway. He’s not interested in hockey at all. I need someone who likes hockey.
Then just fuck him, Wyatt. S’probably all he wants anyway.
I watch the game. He eats his wings, orders more scotch and does whatever on his phone. I get used to it—the comfortable silence. But there’s something else too. Some pull making me interested. I get curious about what he’s doing. I look up just as they’re showing the replay of the goal that just happened. I missed it.
“Aren’t you supposed to cheer when your team scores?” he asks.
“Not my team.”
“You didn’t cheer for the other one either.” His smugness grows.
Did I miss two goals? “If you’d stop talking and let me watch.”
“I haven’t said anything for ten minutes.” His voice is shrill. Flirty.
I swallow. My heart races again. Why’s he doing this to me? I suck back the rest of my drink.
“Another round for my companion,” he says. “Least you’re a cheap date, Major.”
“This ain’t a date and don’t call me that.”
He shrugs. Eddie brings me another soda with lime, and I resolve not to talk to Darius for however long he remains. And he will leave. Speaking of him leaving, he’s got to switch to water soon, right? That’s his third scotch. He can’t drive home. How did he get here? Maybe he’ll need a ride home.
I’m thinking too much about him. He orders a fourth scotch. I miss another goal. I hope he doesn’t notice, and I resolve to pay better attention to the game. Finally, I get into the game, like I should have been. Darius falls away from my radar. I don’t forget he’s there, but I stop letting him distract me.
The game’s almost over. When I look up, Darius is paying his tab—our tab—and putting his blazer on. He’s leaving?
Cold grips me. My stomach hollows. I’ll never see him again. So. So what?
The night was warm. There was something nice about feeling him beside me. I didn’t fidget. I didn’t think about … about, well about … I didn’t think about anything. Not once. It’s always at least once in a two-hour span. I can’t even be around friends anymore. They stopped coming ‘round too and I don’t blame them.
I used to have my shit together. Now, I’m a fucking mess.
I’m withering.
But Darius, there’s something sharp about him. I don’t think he’d break easy. I don’t think he’d break at all.
“Well, Major. I’m out. I’d say it’s been fun, but it really hasn’t. Worst date ever.”
He adjusts his collar. I burn at him. This wasn’t a date. God I just wanna - wanna take him over my knee. He’s so fucking lippy. As he walks by, I snatch his wrist without thinking about it. “Don’t.”
He freezes. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t go.”
I breathe carefully, a strong mix of wanting to spank the life out of him and kiss him coursing through me. For once he’s speechless. He’s not smiling though and that’s my fault. Actually, now that I’m looking straight at him, the circles under his eyes are dark. There’s a cut on his other cheek, the one that was turned away from me and a bruise is blooming. My chest thrums, my hands tremble—fucking hands—but I don’t let go his wrist. It’s coming on. It’s coming. The thought of letting him go makes the tremors worse.
You don’t fucking know him, Wyatt. Yeah, I know. It doesn’t change that when he leaves I’m going to break down. It’s exactly the reason I should let him leave. “Wyatt.” I don’t mean to grunt it at him, but I do. “I’m, Wyatt.”
He twists his lips. What does that mean? He no longer interested? He reaches for my dog tags, getting closer, looking them over. “Reeves. Major Reeves.”
He’s too quiet now, can barely meet my eyes. Where are all his words now? I affect him. Fuck. I can breathe again. “You should know, I wake up screaming. Often.”
“That all I had to do to get you to talk? Leave?”
“Did you hear what I said?”
“Yeah. I figured there was more. Your hands tremble—a lot.”
I drop his wrist. It’s fucking embarrassing. It’s supposed to be gone now. Lord knows I’ve put the work in. But nothing works. Alcohol did sometimes.
“Stop that. Time for you to pony up, Major. Besides. I’m not about to apologize for anything in my character. What you see is what you get.”
I’m probably supposed to do something now, but I can’t.
“You’re bad at this,” he says.
I get cloudy and dark—he’s got a such a mouth on him.
He sighs. Then he straddles my leg, putting his hands on my thick shoulders. I tingle everywhere. I force myself to stare directly at him. “What happened to your face?” I ask. I run a gentle thumb over the break in his skin. Freshly scabbed over. He flinches but doesn’t move away.
“My brother.” My whole face frowns. “Don’t get like that. I deserved it. I lost him a lot of money. A lot. I’m lucky that’s all he did.”
I let it go for now. But I’m not forgetting about it. “You need a ride home? You had four scotches.”
His face cracks into a huge smile. He laughs. “What was the score of the game, Major?”
What was the…? Dammit. I don’t know. “If someone hadn’t distracted me, I’d know.”
“I was a silent, good boy most of your game,” he says quietly. He leans down to my ear. “Take me to your place. I can make it up to you. Really good at sucking cock, Major Reeves.”
I shiver. My cock likes that, perking up again. But no. I take his hand and cup it in both of mine. He’s got long fingers. He seems sober but I’m not sleeping with this one after he’s had four scotches, not the first time anyway. Lord help me, I don’t want to say goodbye to him.
Just the night, Wyatt. One night’s okay.
I make the pact with myself.
“C’mon.” I tug him along. My tags jangling at my neck.
I live close. A few blocks. It’s a nice apartment but nothing fancy. “My car’s here,” he says when he sees we’re walking.
“We’ll come back to get it when you’re sober.”
“I am sober. A little scotch doesn’t affect my ability to drive.”
How many times have I said that? “No.”
He whines and complains. I tug him along while he scowls at me. The night’s warm. I’m glad I only wore a t-shirt (I like V-necks) and loose jeans. He